


The Path of Starlight

by Jedi Buttercup (jedibuttercup)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death Fix, Chocolate Box Exchange, Gen, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-15 07:02:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13608090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedibuttercup/pseuds/Jedi%20Buttercup
Summary: The sounding of a horn revealed to Tauriel their intended target: the Great Horn borne always by the eldest son of the line of the Stewards of Gondor.





	The Path of Starlight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wnnbdarklord](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wnnbdarklord/gifts).



> Movie canon for LOTR to match the movie canon for The Hobbit. I was fascinated by the idea of these two meeting; hopefully I did them justice for you.

In the aftermath of the great battle on the flanks of Erebor – after the victorious dead were laid to rest according to the customs of their peoples, and the orcs and their fell beasts were all fed to cleansing flame – Tauriel found herself faced with a choice that was no choice at all.

Not for her a return to Thranduil's halls; with the matter of her exile unrescinded, and Legolas having also abandoned his father's court, there would be little for her there but grief and the hunt for the last of the Necromancer's creatures. Nor could she present herself at the gates of Erebor; of those dwarves for whom she had acted as jailor on her king's behalf, only two remained who had reason to remember her with any fondness, and without Kíli there as well there would be no succor for her among his people. She had loved him, unexpectedly but with her whole heart, but the grief of his loss cut deeper than any physical wound. Both her home and his were therefore closed to her.

Of the other paths open to a grieving Elf – she was Silvan, of the Nandor, those who had turned from the Great Journey long before it reached the sea; and more than that, a child of Arda Marred, raised amid the long shadows of war. Not for her the white ships of Mithlond and the foreign peace of the Blessed Realm. But neither could she allow herself to fade. She was not of Luthien's line, gifted with the choice of Man's mortality; and even had she been, she would still be separated from Kíli. To fade would be to simply abdicate her existence, only to wake in Mandos with all the lonely Ages still before her.

No. The only thing she could do was to continue the fight that had consumed both her life and his: to honor her parents, her beloved, and even, in a way, her people. The death of Smaug and the cleansing of Dol Guldur had not removed all the evil from Middle-earth; there would be plenty of fighting to keep her busy for many years to come.

...And perhaps a Fire Moon, if her feet took her as far as Dunland. It seemed as good a place as any to begin her hunt.

* * *

It wasn't in Dunland, but on the other side of the Misty Mountains that Tauriel found herself years later when the constant struggle broke into full war once more. She had faced many goblins and the odd orc or warg over the intervening decades, scouting between the scattered tribes of hillmen and patrolling the less settled areas of Rohan, Gondor, and Ithilien. But never had she seen the like of the warband that poured up along the Anduin from the direction of the Gap of Rohan; they were larger than any she had yet encountered, fierce and better armed than was usual for their race and strangely unafraid of the sun.

She had spoken to a scout out of Imladris several weeks before, and knew that the Wise had set a plan of some sort in motion, though she had not sought to be a part of it directly this time around. Yet it seemed destiny had once more come to her instead; the swift-moving _yrch_ could only be a response to whatever decision had been made. She set an arrow to the string of her bow and followed their widely-spread pack through the cover of the trees, seeking the best moment to leap into the fray.

The sounding of a horn revealed to her their intended target: the Great Horn borne always by the current heir of the line of the Stewards of Gondor. It was said to be fashioned from the wild white Kine of Araw of Rhûn, with so loud a voice that it could be mistaken for no other – and at its call, every orc in the pack she followed picked up its pace, heading straight toward its source. Whatever Denethor's son was doing there, his need was clearly urgent.

Tauriel ran as she had seldom run before, abandoning caution to draw and fire with every leap, picking off the largest and most well-equipped orcs as she went. Some noticed her presence, but only a few turned from the path to face her; she slung her bow over one shoulder as she ran low on arrows and vanquished each attacker with a swift slash of her knives before vaulting onward. The horn sounded twice more as she ran, then fell ominously silent; she could but hope that the one who bore it might survive until she reached him. She had met no few men since her visit to Laketown that reminded her of that village's vile master and his lackey – but she had also met many like Bard, bastions of strength and honor around which their people rallied against the Enemy, and from what she had heard Boromir of Gondor was of that kind.

She found the orcs' leader at last as she broke into a thinner patch of forest, a cupped valley amid the trees already scattered with downed, foul bodies. The great orc bore a vast, heavy bow, its string drawn back toward his ear, aiming toward a tall man in a finely-woven cloak who guarded two smaller beings behind him. A heavy black shaft, thumb-thick, already stood out of Boromir's shoulder; he was pale, but still turning to meet a smaller orc's assault with his own sword, and the two he sought to shelter were yelling fiercely as well, raising their own much smaller weapons.

Tauriel's heart lurched at the sight, and for a brief moment she saw two other faces, dark-haired and fair, in place of the pair of courageous young halflings. She gave a sharp cry and leapt down from the trees with her long knives stretched before her, ignoring all the other creatures swarming around them to bury one blade in the leader's shoulder and slash with the other at his bow.

The orc turned even as her first blade bit, jerking backward out of her reach and loosing a point-blank shot in her direction. Tauriel struck the arrow from the air with a flash of her second knife, then rushed forward, climbing him with swift feet and using the still-embedded knife as a grip. He roared and struck at her with the bow's heavy stave, trying to knock her loose again, but she slashed again and parted the string with a sharp cracking sound. The bow splintered in his grip, and he threw it down, then reached out to grab her throat in his massive fist.

She choked, dropping her second knife to grasp his wrist and try to pull herself free as her pulse thundered in her ears – but her assault had done its job, diverting attention from Boromir and leaving the man free to strike. She caught a glimpse of him over the orc's head, pale-faced but determined, lifting his sword in a swift arc – and with no further ado, the orc's head collapsed to the earth.

The Captain of Gondor nearly followed, swaying on his feet as Tauriel coughed, pulling free of the orc's dying grip, but he steadied after a moment, expression desperate as he turned toward where he had left his companions. They still stood there, swords raised before them – but even as they shouted in relief, the rest of the orcs who had been swarming the clearing suddenly broke away, abandoning their fallen leader and sweeping the small pair up in their wake.

"No, the little ones...." Boromir cried, surging as if to go after them, then staggered again as the arrow standing out of his shoulder shifted at the motion. It had bit deep under the collarbone, piercing leather, cloth, mail, and all the layers beneath, and though by the lack of blood on his lips it did not seem to have touched the lung it was much more than a mere flesh wound.

"Peace, peace my friend," she said, clearing her throat and reaching out to lay a hand on his shoulder. "You will do them no good going after them alone, with such a wound. Where are your other companions?" For surely the Wise had sent more than one man and two hobbits alone into the Wild.

"I ... I do not know," he said, faltering, then turned to her, brow furrowing as he fully registered her presence. "Are you one of the Lady Galadriel's people? Did you follow us here – are there others?"

She shook her head, gently. "No; I am Tauriel, of the Wood Elves. A lone scout and hunter. I was tracking those orcs when I heard the sound of your horn and came to assist you. But surely _you_ are not here alone?"

"He is not," another voice said behind them, and Tauriel turned to see a heavily travel-worn Dunedan descending through the trees with sword drawn before him. His armor was splattered with blood – and he bore a ring on his finger whose significance even _she_ had heard of. His gaze caught on the scattered bodies, then the arrow, and the wrinkles in his brow grew even deeper. "Boromir!"

Boromir turned to the other man with a desperate expression. "Aragorn, I failed ... Frodo...."

"Frodo is all right," Aragorn hastened to reassure him, with a sharp sidewise glance in her direction. "He's beyond their reach now, as well as ours. But you...."

Some of the distress left Boromir's expression, but not all. "Merry, Pippin. I tried to save them, but they were taken from me." He swayed then on his feet, and Tauriel moved to brace him again, drawing a startled look as if he had momentarily forgotten her presence.

"Athelas," Tauriel interrupted their discussion firmly; whatever quest they were taking part in, whatever the fate of their friends, it would all come to naught if they did not do something about the arrow first. "Do you have any with you? If you mean to save anyone...."

Boromir shook his head, paling further as he pushed away from her. "That does not matter! If we are to have any chance at all to get them back...."

" _Tauriel_?" A very familiar, startled voice joined the conversation then: Legolas, of all people, hurrying toward them with a shorter, bearded form beside him. "What – how came you here?"

" _Tauriel_?" the dwarf sputtered, staring up at her. " _This_ is Kíli's Elf?"

"Never _mind_ all of that," Boromir ground out, setting a hand to the arrow in his shoulder and making as if to pull it free. "The little ones...."

It was set too deep, though, and he was still pale; the jarring sent his eyes rolling back into his head, staggering her under his suddenly limp weight. 

"Boromir!" Aragorn cried, stepping forward to help her lower his friend carefully to the ground.

"Does it matter how and why I am here?" Tauriel shook her head, glancing around at all of them. "He is right to fear for your friends; I saw them taken with my own eyes. I will tend his wound, but if there is to be any hope of rescue, _someone_ must go."

Aragorn looked torn; but he met gazes with Legolas, who gave him an unmistakably reassuring nod. Then he removed a pouch from his side and thrust it into her hands. "It isn't fresh, but it should serve. We will return for him," he promised. "But if we are gone longer than a night and day...."

"I will see him to his city," she promised. "May the Lord of the Forests go with you, and the Star-Kindler light your path."

He looked toward Boromir again, reluctant, then rested a hand on his friend's shoulder and stood, firming his jaw. The dwarf joined him, brow furrowed as he stared at her; Legolas stood a moment longer with pained eyes, then bowed his head to her and followed his friends out of the clearing, murmuring a phrase of parting.

She smiled crookedly in response, pained again at the echo and reminder of the last time they had seen one another. "I came here following the path of starlight," she murmured after him; the path of precious memory, the path that held back the darkness. There had been no other choice she could make; nor, apparently, had there been for him. Strange that their paths should cross again in such a way; stranger yet that it should lead to her mixing her fate up once more with hobbits and dwarves and a mortal wounded by orcs in need of her healing. 

...She _could_ take a hint, when one was thrust upon her all unlooked-for.

But whatever dire fate had found Tauriel, it had clearly found her new friend first; Boromir needed help, and there was no telling how many other _yrch_ might stumble across them before the man was in any condition to be moved. She had much work ahead of her if she wished this encounter to end any better than the last time she had been caught up in the greater matters of the world. "I really must stop meeting people this way," she said, shaking her head in wistful remembrance, then set one hand to the shaft of the arrow.

Boromir's eyes opened and met hers again, pained and wild but yet unafraid for himself. "My friends...."

"They have gone after the hobbits, do not worry," she reassured him. "But you cannot join them until you have cared for yourself. When you are ready...."

"I am ready," he said grimly, wrapping his own hand around hers. "And ... I thank you."

"Do not thank me yet," Tauriel replied, quirking a wry smile. Then she opened the pouch and set to work.


End file.
